


to whom it may concern

by jennyquill



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Other, for the sake of this story i am ignoring canon, this is the story of a woman, who made a decision
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9712385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennyquill/pseuds/jennyquill
Summary: it’s one thing to wonder about lena luthor being your hypothetical daughter and another to actually be in the same room as her.or;a story, told by lena luthor’s birth mothercanon divergence. lena's mother has no ties to the luthor name.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so this is not canon at all. i am basically just rewriting lena's background into a totally different story that would never make it to the cw or any mainstream media platform but hEY that's what fanfiction is for amirite folks. 
> 
> lena's mom has no ties to the luthors and this is her story, and in a way then this is lena's, too. 
> 
> or, another adoption narrative that i wanted to see so i wrote one instead. 
> 
> talk to me about adoption and family and bonds and ties in the comments. every journey is unique and we can all benefit from listening to others.

 

.

  


She is the worst of cliches.

 

The pregnancy test in her hand is heavy. If she listens closely, she can hear the blood rushing from her head to her heart in a manic, chilling wave. Downstairs, the door slams shut and a closet door is opened. Her mother is home.

 

She packs the test away quickly and discards all evidence of her being there.

 

In the safety of her room, she checks the test again. Maybe the lighting makes a difference.

 

The line is still there, still solid, still red.

 

She stands in the middle of her bedroom with a positive pregnancy test in her hands and she doesn’t shake, doesn't cry, doesn’t make a sound.

 

Before dinner she throws the test away. She is the worst of cliches but that doesn’t mean she’s going to let anyone else know.

  


.

  


She buys another test a few days later.

 

The red lines appear like magic.

 

This time, she cries.

  


.

  


Her sister is the first to know.

 

Her sister doesn’t say anything for a very long time and the tv has transitioned from one sitcom into another and the laugh tracks sound hollow and mocking while she waits for judgement.

 

“Was it with…”

 

“Yes.”

 

“.....and you didn’t use…..”

 

“Obviously not.”

 

Her sister bites her nails. She’s too old to bite her nails.

 

“Does he know?”

 

“No.”

 

The colors blur on the screen. The characters are telling her things but she doesn’t hear.

 

They sit shoulder to shoulder on the couch and since her sister hasn’t moved away from her yet then she guesses she’s got at least one ally in the face of the storm.

 

“You won’t be able to hide it.”

 

“I know.”

 

Her sister reaches for the remote and changes the channel to a crime show. A man in bright spandex is beating up a smaller man in black clothes. The punches echo in her ears.

 

She puts a hand to her stomach, thinks about red lines.

 

“I know.”

  


.

  


He is the second to know.

 

And he is very, very good about it. Like he is with most things.

 

That’s why she fell in love with him in the first place.

 

They’re sitting on top of the bleachers looking over the soccer field as the winter sun goes down. It’s still early but there’s darkness creeping up fast in the corners of the skies. She shivers and is reminded of how much she despises the cold.

 

“What are we going to do?” he asks. He fidgets with the fingers of his gloves, the ones that she gave him for Christmas.

 

She pulls her hat lower, thinks of disappearing acts.

 

“I have no idea.”

 

“We have options.”

 

“What do you want to do?”

 

He’s looking out into the sunset, his brow twisted in a jumbled line.

 

“I don’t think it’s my choice to make.”

 

And she feels her chest collapse under the weight of how much she loves him and how bad this situation is and how she’s an absolute monster for the words that are about to come out of her mouth -

 

“I don’t want it.”

 

He looks at her then, really looks at her, and his eyes are piercing. His mouth opens, closes.

 

He is good, very good, and she wonders when he will leave.

 

This might be when.

 

But he doesn’t. He wraps his arm around her and pulls her tight against his side and they sit on top of cold bleachers looking out into fading light and she doesn’t feel on top of the world she just feels cold, cold, cold.

 

“Do you hate me?”

 

“No, never.”

 

“Do you hate what i want?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you want it?”

 

He presses his forehead against hers.

 

“I want what you want.”

 

And then she’s crying again, silent tears that rush down her face and he takes a gloved hand and wipes them away before they freeze in the frigid air.

 

“Am I a monster?”

 

“How could you be a monster?”

 

“Because i don’t want my kid.”

 

“And that makes you a monster?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I don’t think that makes you a monster.”

 

“I think it does.”

 

He bites his lip. That’s what he does when he’s thinking. She thinks of how many times she’s seen that lip bite.

 

“I’m as much of a monster as you.”

 

And that should placate her. It should soothe her, that her boyfriend isn’t being a difficult asshole, that she’s got allies, that she doesn’t have to be alone.

 

Instead, she cries harder. He lets her, rocks her, whispers soothing nothings in her ear.

 

When it’s over and done, they walk hand in hand back to his car and he drives her home. He kisses her chastely on the doorstep and says hello to her mother and shakes hands with her father. They hug goodbye and then the door is quietly shut on him and her family rewinds in the living room while her father’s records spin in the background.

 

Later, she throws up her dinner in the toilet.

  


.

  


She cannot be a mother.

 

She is seventeen and works at the shoe repair shop in town and goes to the movies with her boyfriend on the weekend. She calls her best friend on the landline while she paints her toes red. She teases her sister about crushes and argues with her parents. She goes to dances and she drives fast and she does her homework and she daydreams about bigger and better things than herself.

 

She cannot be a mother.

 

She daydreams and she never once daydreamed about having kids.

 

Bigger and better? She didn’t think so.

 

She dreamt of open spaces and city skyscrapers, of places from magazines and people from pretty galas. She dreamt of a different kind of air, of what it would be like to step into Harvard’s library, to jump from hundreds of thousands of feet, of whether or not the sun felt different on the east coast.

 

And she couldn’t really do all of that if she had a kid, could she?

 

She can wish to grow up as fast as she can but she at least wants to do it in order, with control.

 

She is too young and too old and too much all at the same time.

 

She is a kid.

 

She cannot be a mother.

  


.

  


Her father is the third.

 

The wrench drops out of his hand with a heavy, metallic clang.

 

Like her sister, he doesn’t say anything at first.

 

He scratches his head, wipes grease off of his hands, bends to pick up the wrench, and then continues to where he left off.

 

“Hand me those wires, would you.”

 

She gives him some red covered wires and holds her breath.

 

“How many miles do you think she has left on her.”

 

“Uh,” she blinks, refocuses. “Um, I don’t know, maybe 5,000?”

 

Her father considers this.

 

“Probably around that.”

 

“Is it really?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why did you say probably, then?”

 

“Does he know?”

 

There it is.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Does your mother?”

 

“No.”

 

“How did this happen?”

 

She blushes. “Well, if you want the specifics -”

 

“No, I mean _how_ did this happen?”

 

How could you let this happen?

 

She wraps her arms around herself.

 

“I didn’t really plan it.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

She frowns. “I’m sorry?”

 

Her father tugs something black and tar-looking from the bowels of the engine. “You’re pregnant.” He shakes his head and his hands plunge into the trappings of the engine, pulling, twisting, all the while muttering _pregnant, my daughter, pregnant,_ under his breath.

 

She feels words rise in her throat and then die as they reach her tongue. There is no fight in her, only resolve.

 

She’s pregnant.

 

Her father tinkers and she sits and together they suffer in silence.

 

Then, she picks up her own wrench and walks on shaky legs to the other side of the hood.

 

“I’m going to fix this,” she says and she begins to disassemble oil and metal and wire, hands unsteady, muscles remembering what was taught years ago.

 

Her father works methodically on the other side. He grunts.

 

After some time, he walks over to her, wipes his hands on a rag, and looks tired.

 

“I’ll help.”

 

She sighs, relieved, and it wracks her body.

 

“Thank god,” she says, pulls herself out of the engine. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve been using the wrong wrench.”

 

“You have.”

 

They share a small smile, something delicate and careful, and they fix up that old dusty car together.

  


.

  


Her mother is the fourth and final.

 

She’s doing the dishes, baiting her breath, waiting, listening for the end click of the phone, for her mother to waltz into the kitchen looking for a distraction.

 

This is going to be one hell of a distraction.

 

The phone goes first, followed by the click-clack of her mother’s heels, and then she hears shuffling in the fridge before she has a chance to gather her thoughts.

 

Her mother pours herself a glass of water and takes a long chug before turning to her daughter.

 

A distraction.

 

“Your grandmother is coming to visit next week,” she says.

 

“Oh.”

 

“So start moving your things into your sister’s room.”

 

“I know, I know.”

 

“How was school?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“I was looking for a certain type of paint swatch today. Something brighter for the living room, you know? I think blue is a popular color but that’s just the problem, it’s popular, you see?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Her mother tips back the glass and finishes the water. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and her eyes fall onto the cabinet below the sink.

 

“What do you think of repainting the living room this weekend?” she asks.

 

She can feel her mother inch closer.

 

“I have plans.”

 

“Ah,” her mother chuckles. “The boyfriend.”

 

“What if I told you that I hang out with people besides him?” she rolls her eyes. The dishes clink in the sink.

 

Her mother laughs. “It’d sound mighty suspicious. I can’t think of a time when you two weren’t together.”

 

She rinses the last of the plates.

 

“We have been together for a long time,” she says slowly.

 

“Forever,” her mother agrees. The glass shines in her hands. Her gaze flutters around the kitchen. “This could use some new paint, too.” She stares at a spot on the ceiling, one hand contemplative on her chin.

 

“Our two year anniversary is next month,” she says, tries to bring her mother back.

 

“I wonder if wallpaper will ever go out of style,” her mother voices aloud.

 

“I think we’re pretty serious, all things considered.”

 

“Florals, now that’s groundbreaking. Maybe some purples?”

 

“...and we’re very committed to school, and our futures -”

 

“- but right now I’m thinking that maybe wallpaper and florals are a bit too much?”

 

“Mom.”

 

“You’re right, honey, you can never go wrong with florals.”

 

“Mom, I -”

 

“What am I thinking? Florals are all the hype -”

 

“Mom, I'm pregnant.”

 

“- which is horrible, considering -” her mother stops. She sets her glass down on the counter and it clinks too loud and her smile is too amused, her mouth too wide.

 

“You’re kidding.” her laugh is short, hard.

 

She is silent.

 

Her mother’s face goes through a flipbook of expressions.

 

“Before you say anything, everyone knows, and no, I don’t know what I’m going to do, I don’t know how I let it happen, and I am sorry, okay? I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean for it to happen.” She faces her mother, hands pruned and face scrunched.

 

Her mother stares back at her, eyebrows shot up to her hairline. She opens her mouth, closes it. Then, she takes a step into her daughter’s space and reaches beneath the sink, reaches into the dark of the cabinets and pulls out a bottle of wine. She uncorks it, pours a liberal amount in her glass, and takes a long sip.

 

She turns to her daughter, blouse immaculate, heels tall, necklace shining, and says, “we’re painting the living room this weekend. you better be there.” And with that, she side steps out of the kitchen.

 

Her daughter stands alone. She searches, but she can’t find the energy within her to cry.

 

She takes her time with the dishes.

  


.

  


Her grandmother comes and leaves with little fanfare.

 

She talks about California, about the warmth, the sun, the people.

 

“I like that new crime fighting show,” she says over dinner. “It’s delightful.”

 

“How do you like the living room?” her mother asks. “We painted it last weekend.”

 

Her grandmother and mother switch between crime shows and wallpaper with such little transition that she wonders if they’re really listening to each other. She mostly plays with her vegetables, keeps her tongue tied shut in case something stupid should come off of it, something like _hey, I'm pregnant and I'm terrified. Help me._

 

They’re able to get through the dinner and the weekend without anyone spilling her dirty little secret and her grandmother leaves with a happy, deluded smile, waving goodbye on the bus that following Sunday.

 

Her sister squeezes her arm as they watch her go.

  


.

  


“What are you gonna name it?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

She’s propped up against the couch while her sister is lying with her back on the carpet. The windows are blown open to let in the summer breeze. She is five months along.

 

“I like Jessica.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Amanda?”

 

“No.”

 

“Tracy? Ashley?”

 

“No, and no. Also, what if it’s not a girl?”

 

“Fine. Ben. Harris. Peter.”

 

“No, no, and no.”

 

“Give it no name, then.”

 

The fan whirs. Outside, she can hear the leaves rustle in the wind.

 

“I just know it’s gonna be a girl.”

 

She turns to look at her sister. She’s lying peacefully, arms extended above her head, looking into the ceiling with a small smile on her face.

 

“How do you know?”

 

“I just do.”

 

In truth, she hadn’t been thinking of names. She hadn’t been thinking of genders, either. she had been pushing the baby far from her mind, the only sign that she was expecting being her growing tummy and increased eating habits.

 

“It’s gonna look like me, too.”

 

“Because you’re the one having it.”

 

“No, because I’m the prettier one.”

 

She shoves her sister lightly.

 

“I think it’s gonna look like him,” her sister whispers.

 

Her heart drops. The room gets hot.

 

“Maybe,” she murmurs.

 

The fan whirls.

 

“I want ice cream.”

 

Her sister squeals. “Race you!” She flies up with youthful sprite, and she watches her sister’s long legs with envy.

 

“Not fair,” she calls and rolls awkwardly upwards.

 

Her sister giggles from the kitchen and for a moment, she can pretend that everything is normal, that this would be any other summer before school.

 

Their ice cream drips from their cones and onto the tablecloth and they don’t really care.

  


.

  


It’s a terrifying thought that keeps her up at night.

 

What if it looks like him? Like her? Like something she can’t give up?

 

She imagines looking into familiar eyes and feeling haunted.

 

She cannot be a mother. She cannot be a mother.

 

She repeats this like a prayer, a mantra, something to keep her sane.

  


.

  


Her mother takes her to her doctor’s visits. They don’t say anything the entire trip.

  


.

  


“It’s a girl.” The doctor smiles at her, eyes crinkling fondly around the corners.

 

Her sister punches her arm. “Told ya.”

  


.

  


He spends more time with her, and the more time they spend together, the less sure she becomes of her decision.

 

She thinks of making it work, of bringing life into the world and claiming it as her own.

 

He would be by her side, steady, calm, good.

 

But then she thinks of other things, these ghastly other things on her mind, these things that make life look bigger, make herself look smaller, and the grass has never looked so green on that other side.

 

He applies to some far off colleges and so does she. There’s no reason to stay.

  


.

 

Her father helps her out of the car despite her protests.

 

“I’ve got this,” she complains, but accepts his hand anyways.

 

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

  


.

  


“So.”

 

“So.”

 

“This is it.” He holds her hand across the clutch. The radio croons softly. She lets out a breath.

 

The night is fair. Autumn creeps through the trees and under yellow light, this would’ve been a perfect date.

 

Except she’s due next week, and that’s all she’s been thinking about.

 

“This is it,” she agrees.

 

They leave it at that. They don’t talk about what comes after the next. They don’t talk about what happens after it happens.

 

She tells herself to breathe, to look at the way the leaves are falling onto the street.

 

He drives her home, lets her get out of the car herself, walks hand in hand with her to the doorstep. He kisses her goodnight and leaves before her parents open the door.

  


.

  


The pain.

 

Oh god.

 

The _pain_.

 

The whole ordeal is a blur. She’s half drugged up, half alive, and mostly swirling in a murky tidal wave of sounds and feelings, something stretching and something contracting, something here and something there.

 

She squeezes and squeezes his hand until she feels blood.

 

Pain.

 

And for what?

 

Her head hits the pillows and she screams.

 

Pain.

  


.

  


It’s when they let her hold her baby for the first time that she knows.

 

She knows that she can’t, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t -

 

Because the baby has bright eyes and soft hairs and it’s so small, so full of potential, so harmful and harmless at the same time, that she just knows in that moment, that this cannot be hers.

 

She does all the paperwork quietly while her sister holds the baby. Her parents wait outside. Her boyfriend left an hour ago.

 

There is a list of names next to her water glass. She doesn’t give them a glance. If she does, she will not be able to sign these papers.

 

They’re taken through some legal steps. Words are thrown around, like “foster care” and “decisions” and “long range planning.”

 

Legally, the decision is all hers.

 

She thinks of his eyes, the tightness of his hand on hers, the tremble of his lips. She thinks of her sister bouncing the baby, her mother’s curious gaze, her father stepping out into the lobby.

 

She makes a decision.

  


.

  


And the world keeps turning.

  


.

  


She goes to college in a far city where the sun shines hot in the summer and low in the winter.

 

She studies maths because that was the only thing she was ever good at.

 

She makes friends easily, likes her classes, her roommates, her new city…

 

It’s nice. It’s new. It’s hers, because she wanted it to be.

 

There’s nothing to remind her of what she left behind.

  


.

  


They break up.

 

Long distance, he says. He couldn’t handle the distance, he says. You were so far, he says.

 

She can see him biting his lip and running a hand through dark hair, bright, sad eyes looking down at his shoes as he calls from the dormitory phones.

 

He is good, so very good about a lot of things, and he was good about this, too.

 

And if all good things must come to an end, then she must’ve been the luckiest girl in the world for it to have ended the way it did.

 

They say their goodbyes and she can’t shrug the feeling like they’ve said it for the last time.

  


.

  


She takes a job in Chicago because the city is different and the grass looks very green.

 

There was some speculation about Gotham, but she prefers quieter cities. Here, the buildings don’t crumble every other day and the media isn’t lurking on every corner she turns.

 

She’s been to Metropolis. She thinks her grandmother would’ve liked that city, all the action and adventure and real-life crime show shenanigans her heart could handle.

 

Slowly, her roots cement herself in the city. It’s cold but she deals with it. It’s mostly pretty and humble, the people busy and the distractions easy to find.

 

She meets him a month after moving in and falls in love quicker than that. He’s sweet with a bite, all dark eyes and dark hair and opinions on the solar system spilling out of his pocket. They marry a year later.

 

And her life keeps moving, keeps flowing, and she gets swept up in it all.

  


.

  


He gets a job offer in Metropolis years later.

 

She wrinkles her nose. “It’s so noisy there.”

 

He shrugs. “Good pay and a higher position, I don’t see why that doesn’t balance it out?”

 

“You just want to see Superman in action.”

 

He sputters and she smiles. Caught.

 

“No,” he gawks. “No, I do not want to see a man in spandex fly around skyscrapers and take down guys with his bare hands, pff, please.” 

 

She pats his shoulder comfortingly. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’d understand if you wanted to leave me for a superhero.”

 

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I need Metropolis _that_ bad.”

 

She smiles, wraps her arms around his neck. “I would be sad to leave, but if you really wanted to take the offer I’m not going to stop you.”

 

“I know,” he says. “But Superman will always be there. Isn’t he like, immortal or something?”

 

“I have no idea.”

 

“That’d be pretty rad. But mostly sad.”

 

“I think that’d be very sad.”

 

He leans their foreheads together. “Maybe we’ll try Metropolis another time, huh?”

 

“Perhaps. If that’s what you want.”

 

They stand together, rocking slowly back and forth.

 

“You know I'd follow you anywhere, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

She thinks of seeing the east coast, of Superman flying past them on a busy street.

 

Something about Metropolis makes her curious.

 

They pin-up that conversation for later, instead make dinner side by side in their tiny kitchen, and she feels like she belongs in the here, the now, the moment.

  


.

  


She discovers that she _can_ be a mother. 

 

She has her second child at age thirty-four, and her third at age thirty-eight.

 

And it’s different, because she’s ready. Because she planned this. Because it’s steady.

 

The first is a boy with dark eyes and dark hair and a quiet, lovely smile.

 

The second is a girl with light brown hair and shaded eyes, something wide in the way that she takes in the world.

 

He loves his family. She falls in love with him even more while watching him fall in love with this new pocket of the world that they’ve created.

 

And then there are these moments, these little shards that tap her shoulder when she isn’t paying attention, and she will be reminded of bright eyes and dark hair and the oddest, deepest sense of melancholy of what could’ve been and what has become.

 

Twenty-one years. She cannot imagine what has happened.

 

She watches her kids play in the yard and the sun dips in the sky, and the feeling slips away.

  


.

  


She’s glad they didn’t move to Metropolis all those years ago.

 

Metropolis has had a total meltdown and all the world watches through the television screen.

 

She watches as the Luthors are spread across the screen in a glaringly bright fashion and she feels a pity that is only achieved when such interpersonal means is involved with the damned and the spectators.

 

Her husband cheers for Superman.

 

“A good man,” he declares and points to the figure on the screen for the kids. “That is a hero.”

 

Her kids couldn’t care less. One is on a barbie kick and the other has a fascination with the cat.

 

She watches the Luthors in court. The mother cries, the father is a stone, and the daughter pulls a wicked poker face. They all wear a matching set of black.

 

She turns to her family. Her husband trying to explain the heroics of Superman, her son setting up the Barbie house, and her daughter searching for the cat under the couch.

 

She smiles, and turns the tv off.

  


.

  


Her sister calls her that evening.

 

“Did you watch the news?” her sister asks.

 

“Yeah. It was pretty sad.”

 

“Tell me about it.” There’s a pause.

 

“Why’d you call?” she asks her. “Not that I don’t like hearing from you, it’s just kind of random.”

 

“What, I can’t catch up with my big sis?”

 

“You hate court cases. You wouldn’t call to gossip about something as whacked up as the Lex Luthor scandal.”

 

“You never know. A girl can change her mind.”

 

“Okay.” She wraps up the remains of the lasagne they had that night. “So what’s up?”

 

Her sister shuffles.

 

“You’re stalling.”

 

“Am not.”

 

“Alright, I guess we’re seventeen again.”

 

Her sister is quiet again. “Speaking of being seventeen…”

 

She stops, hands hovering over tupperware. She chooses her next words very carefully.

 

“What about being seventeen?”

 

“Okay, you’re going to think I’m crazy for what I’m about to say -”

 

“I already think you’re crazy.”

 

“Just hear me out.”

 

She takes a deep breath and steadies herself against the counter.

 

“You watched the Luthor trial?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“All of it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Did you see the family.”

 

“Yes, they were kind of hard to miss.” She rubs her temples. “What is this about?”

 

“Did anything seem, um, familiar?”

 

Her eyes narrow in confusion. “What?”

 

“No?”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

She can hear her sister pacing. “Did anything strike you as odd when you were watching the trial?”

 

She crosses her arms. “I don’t know, I follow court cases as closely as you do.”

 

“So nothing then?”

 

“I guess? I really don’t know what you’re saying.”

 

“I- I’m saying,” she stops, stutters. “You know what, nevermind. I’m just being weird.”

 

The heavy silence feels far from nothing.

 

“So,” she tries. “What does this have to do with being seventeen?”

 

Her sister is quiet. Then, “nothing. Nothing at all.”

 

“You are weird.”

 

“I cannot tell a lie.”

 

They switch the conversation to kids and houses and back pains and other adult, tangible things.

 

After she hangs up, she puts the food away neatly and cleans down the kitchen, and she almost, almost forgets about the oddity of the entire conversation.

  


.

  


It is years later when she is reminded of that telephone conversation.

 

Her daughter has a CatCo monthly subscription. Her son looks at it too, even if he won’t admit it.

 

This month’s spread is about Lena Luthor, who is apparently making a brazen come back. The cover shows her proud and defiant, mouth a thin line, eyes done up and dazzling, some sort of cross between the world’s most powerful woman and the world’s most secret supermodel.

 

Her daughter admires Lena Luthor and talks about going into a stem field herself.

 

Her son is graduating high school and her sister flew out to celebrate. Right now, her sister holds the CatCo magazine carefully in her hands and examines the front page with intense scrutiny.

 

“Looking for something?” she asks her.

 

Her sister’s eyebrows scrunch up. “How can you not see it,” she wonders, mostly to herself.

 

She turns from where she’s setting down glasses. “See what?”

 

Her sister holds the magazine up. “That you’re an exact carbon copy of Lena Luthor?”

 

She laughs, short and cold. “You’re funny.”

 

Her sister grips the magazine tighter. “You don’t see it?”

 

“No?”

 

“Oh my god,” her sister flips through the spread. Page after page of Lena Luthor, Lena Luthor in a dress, Lena Luthor sitting at her desk, walking the streets, smiling on an angle.

 

She sees a stranger.

 

“What makes you think we look alike?”

 

“The eyes, mostly.”

 

“We’re both typical white women, dear sister. I can see the mix-up.”

 

“No, I mean they’re _yours_.”

 

“She is pretty. This is very flattering.”

 

“I’m really not joking.”

 

Her sister huffs. She sets the magazine down and holds up a finger.

 

“I’ll be right back,” she says. She darts out of the room and is back a moment later carrying an old photo album.

 

“Oh god.”

 

“Hear me out.” Her sister flips through memories until she lands on a satisfying page. She points to a picture of the two of them: mid twenties, laughing under the sun while the skyline of Chicago stands proud and tall in the back. She pulls the magazine so that Lena Luthor’s face is imposing on the old photo.

 

She walks next to her sister and examines.

 

Her heart stops.

 

There, next to her twenty-five year old self and Lena Luthor’s smize, is the unmistakeable puzzle piece clicking into place, the realisation that only blood-bonded souls can understand.

 

“That’s…” she tries for words.

 

“Crazy?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

Her sister is quiet. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

 

“No,” she agrees. “It doesn’t.”

 

“I mean, I’ve always thought you two looked uncomfortably similar.”

 

“I never noticed.”

 

“I know. I don’t think you ever would’ve.”

 

She can’t argue that.

 

The longer she stares at the pictures, the more their faces blur together until her head starts to spin.

 

“Okay,” she says, and she snaps the magazine shut, closes the album and steps away from the table. “That’s enough weirdness for today.” She walks back into the kitchen and reaches for pots and pans, anything to distract her.

 

Her sister looks guilty.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.”

 

“You know, because you happen to look like her doesn’t mean you’re…”

 

“I know, I know.” She forces a laugh. “Crazy stuff, though.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“She’s probably too young to be…” Her voice trails.

 

Her sister nods. “Right, right.”

 

“How funny would it be if,” she laughs, something real this time. “If, you know.”

 

Her sister - always a step ahead of her - goes agreeably. “Oh yeah. That’s, that’s ridiculous.”

 

“So ridiculous.”

 

The laughter dies. The kitchen becomes too quiet.

 

Her sister picks up the album. “I’ll just put this back.” She leaves quickly.

 

She braces herself on the counter. Her heart beats rather wildly, and she doesn’t know why.

  


.

  


Her son graduates and it is a beautiful day.

 

The sun shines, the grass is green, and she is surrounded by the people she loves.

 

When her son walks the length of the stage and holds up his diploma, smile wide and eyes bright and young, she isn’t embarrassed that she cried.

  


.

  


She wonders if Lena Luthor’s mother cried at her graduation.

  


.

  


She googles Lena Luthor. Because she has no self control.

 

Lena is the right age. She’s adopted. She looks like -

 

She looks like her. But she also looks like him.

 

It’s the dark hair. It’s the slope of the eyes.

 

She sees just as much of herself as she does him.

 

And then she wipes her browsing history before she closes her laptop. She tells herself that it’s late, she’s tired and her mind is playing tricks.

 

A coincidence, really.

 

Nothing else.

  


.

  


But what could’ve happened?

 

What could’ve been?

 

She’s never stopped to think, never entertained the idea -

 

Because -

 

Because she never needed to. Never, ever, did she consider -

 

She wasn’t ready.

 

She steels herself.

  


.

  


She wasn’t ready.

  


.

  


You can’t change the past.

  


.

  


You keep moving forward.

  


.

  


She doesn’t really think about Lena Luthor or magazine covers for a long while.

 

She moves her son into his dorm and watches as he hugs his little sister goodbye.

 

She cries some more. They leave him at the front doors, a cheeky grin on his face and his hair flying in the wind.

 

He looks like his father.

  


.

  


And the world keeps turning.

  


.

  


She visits her mother before Easter.

 

Here, standing on the other side of her childhood picket fence, she feels too tall in the space that was once hers.

 

Her mother is drinking from a tall glass when she enters the living room.

 

“Do you like the paint?”

 

“I love it, mom.”

 

“It’s new.”

 

It’s not.

 

“I’ve always liked the color blue.”

 

She hums and pats her mother’s knee affectionately.

 

They watch some odd daytime talk shows until the sun starts to dip into the sky and throw dark shadows into the room. Her mother babbles about the neighbors, something about grandkids and a new dog. Her glass is refilled.

 

She makes her mother an easy pasta dish that isn’t from a microwaveable container. Her mother eats it without comment, and she wonders if she can tell the difference.

  


.

  


“Mom?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do you think that -”

 

“Speak up, sweetheart, I can’t hear you.”

 

“Do you think that I made the right decision?”

 

Her mother has been slipping in the past years, but she’s never forgotten about this.

 

“My dear, in all honesty, I believe that what’s done is done.”

 

She exhales.

 

“And I know that you’ve become much more than that.”

 

She holds her mother’s hand until she falls asleep.

  


.

  


She calls her sister one night.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Now look who’s calling out of the blue.”

 

“Do you really think that Lena Luthor is my daughter?”

 

The line is silent for several terrible seconds. Then:

 

“I can’t say for sure.”

 

She rubs her temples. All this anxiety is welling up in her and for _what_ exactly -

 

“...but, sis, there’s this, I don’t know, feeling, I guess?”

 

“A feeling. You’re going off of a feeling.”

 

“There’s nothing else to back this up.”

 

“No, there’s not.”

 

Quiet.

 

“How long have you thought this? How long since this feeling?” She swallows.

 

“Ever since the Luthors went public.”

 

“That’s like,” she does a quick calculation, “fifteen years?”

 

“Yeah, something like that.”

 

She swears under her breath. It still doesn’t add up, something isn’t clicking -

 

“But,” her breath catches trying to find the words, “why? why bring this up? Why dwell on the past and make something more than what it is?”

 

“You really think this is that easy to put away? You had a baby. You gave it away. You don’t exactly forget about that kind of thing.”

 

She’s quiet. They breathe on separate ends of the line.

 

Her sister clears her throat. “Also, I was wrong.”

 

She narrows her eyes, confused. “About what?”

 

“I thought the baby would look like him. I was wrong.” Her sister pauses. “She looks like you.”

 

She inhales a sharp breath, vision blurring, and then ends the call.

  


.

  


Her sister has always been one step ahead of her.

 

She wonders when she’ll start following her lead.

  


.

  


“Would you ever contact her?”

 

“What would I even say? 'Hey, this is random, but I think I'm your mom?' ”

 

“She’s a public figure. It wouldn’t be that hard.”

 

“Think about all the people that have already done that.”

 

“You never know.”

 

“I don’t want to think about it right now.”

 

“Okay.”

  


.

  


“Maybe this is just a crazy, crazy coincidence.”

 

“Genetics aren’t that crazy.”

 

“They can be.”

 

“In your case, I think not.”

  


.

  


And then, one blustery summer day, a conference call whisks her away to the city.

 

She’s walking into a coffee shop, meeting finished, briefcase full of notes, and she files into line with the rest of the world. She checks her phone and sends a follow up email to him, a thank you to her, and then -

 

She looks up at nothing particular, eyes falling from the menu above her head, and they land on _her_.

 

She stops breathing.

 

She’s taking her coffee from the counter and smiling graciously at the barista, teeth pointy and lipstick perfect. CatCo editing had nothing on her; she was just as captivating on the page as she was in real life.

 

She watches her walk to a window seat and suddenly everything feels too intimate, too real, and her world spins for a ferocious second.

 

Lena Luthor is sitting less than ten feet away from her and it feels _weird_.

 

She’s pulled back into life when the barista yells her name. Sheepishly, she goes up and takes her order and flashes the barista a smile.

 

_Is her smile the same? Does the barista notice? Does anyone notice -_

 

She notices.

 

It’s one thing to wonder about Lena Luthor being your hypothetical daughter and another to actually be in the same room as her.

  


.

  


She sneaks another glance towards the window. Lena’s sipping her drink and smiling at something on her phone.

 

She looks away, expression schooled back into something that looks normal.

  


.

  


Time slows. Her heart pounds.

  


.

  


She thinks of her old childhood room, of Christmas gloves. She thinks of car rides and moving into the dorms and meeting her husband. She thinks of her mother’s empty wine bottles underneath the sink.

  


.

  


She thinks of coincidences. Of women who bare children only to give them up.

  


.

  


She thinks of the here. She thinks of the now.

  


.

  


She remembers her son’s smile. Her daughter’s laugh.

  


.

  


She makes a decision.

  


.

  


“Excuse me.”

 

Lena Luthor looks up. Her eyes are impossibly green and she is momentarily reminded of cold bleachers and the winter sun.

 

“Hello.” Her voice is low, warm.

 

“Hi.”

 

“Can i help you?”

 

“My daughter loves CatCo magazine. So does my son. They’re big fans of your article.”

 

Lena’s eyes sparkle and something relaxes in her demeanor. “Thank you,” she says, and it sounds like she means it. “A dear friend of mine wrote the article, so all compliments to her.”

 

“Your friend writes very well.”

 

“She does.”

  


She stands there awkwardly, hovering over Lena's table before she remembers herself.

 

“Well, um,” she clears her throat. “Just wanted to say hi.”

 

Lena’s laugh bubbles. “Thank you, I appreciate it. Tell your son and daughter I said hello.”

 

“For sure.”

 

The energy between them is suspended. She takes a greedy moment and searches Lena’s face. There is something achingly familiar about the bridge of her nose, the set of her eyes, her eyes, those green, green eyes -

 

Lena bites her lip as if she’s just remembered something. She opens her mouth, eyebrows furrowing.

 

“Have I -”

 

Lena’s phone rings. She looks down, expression revealing that she’s being called back to duty.

 

Lena gives her an apologetic look.

 

“I’m so sorry, I have to take this.”

 

“No, I understand. I should get going.”

 

And then she leaves before Lena can say anything else, because she doesn’t think she can handle anything more.

  


.

  


When she exits the coffee shop, the first thing she does is lean against the brick wall and catch her breath.

  


.

  


It’s her.

  


.

 

 

After all these years. 

 

 

.

  


She remembers hearing a story many years ago. A story about a mother who was separated from her children for years, and when she was finally able to cross borders to reunite with them, she knew their faces immediately.

 

One look, the story had went, and the mother knew without a doubt that they were hers and hers alone.

 

Many years ago, she was cynical. How could the woman have known with such certainty, when age and distance and time had warped bodies and perceptions of who she once knew?

 

Now, leaning against the brick wall of a coffee shop in the middle of downtown Chicago, she understands. She knows.

 

It’s her.

  


.

  


It’s her.

  


.

  


A hand taps her shoulder.

 

It's her.

 

Lena's coffee is gone and she's looking hurried.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she starts. “But I never got to say goodbye to you.”

 

“Oh, no worries. You’re a busy lady.”

 

“You have no idea.”

 

They laugh amicably at that and the tension from before dissipates.

 

“My kids are going to be over the moon when they hear about who I talked to today.”

 

Lena laughs.

 

Her mother’s words come back to her then:

 

_What’s done is done._

 

Lena and her make small, polite chat. Something about business, something about traveling, something about visiting Chicago. 

 

Lena Luthor is indeed a busy woman.

 

She thinks of being seventeen, of being scared.

 

Lena Luthor, accomplished CEO and billionaire genius, stands before her in a slight breeze, city clothes spiffed up and ambition high.

 

_And I know that you’ve become much more -_

 

And she could say something, she could confess, could confide - 

 

And yet -

 

That's not what the universe set them up to do. 

 

It's over all too soon and Lena leaves, sighting a pressing schedule and a flight back home.

 

They part easily, as easy as strangers do.

 

The irony tastes sweet in her mouth.

 

She watches Lena turn the corner, and then she is gone.

  


.

  


She walks back to the train without hurry.

  


.

  


And the world keeps turning.

  


.

  


Her daughter’s CatCo magazine sits on the table. Lena Luthor graces the cover once more with the headline _A L_ _uthor and A Super?_ brightly painted underneath her.

 

She smiles, pulls up a chair, and turns to the first page.

  


.

  
  



End file.
